Under the shower spray
by Little-Firestar84
Summary: He knows how she looks like underneath the shower spary, her hair like an halo, like a goddess right before him, and all he can think of is that there's indeed a divinity in the world since she is there, with him, real. That- and the fact that he just can't have enough of touching her. Just to make sure, and remember himself, that it's really happening. post Blue Bird, adult
1. Chapter 1

A/N: according to a line from the upcoming episode, Jane _does know _how Lisbon looks like when she showers; now, the (in)famous mentioned flip-flops aren't here, but I thought that, to knows how she looks with them when she showers, and as he made a comparison, saying she loos "less attractive" by wearing them, I think we can say he saw her both with and without flip-flops as she took a shower...

Hence, this piece, set before the season premiere, 24 hours later Blue Bird... it's a little smutty, but there'a slot of feelings there too, and also, it shows my obsession with writing Jane and Lisbon having sex while wet 8two days ago I did write a piece about the two of them having sex in a bath-tub, after all...).

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><p>He wakes up in the morning with a smile on his face, one that enlightens his whole features, after hours and hours…. Well, after <em>not so many hours <em>of sleep, but for once in his life, Patrick Jane can honestly say that he is well rested. And within reason: of course the damn painkiller for his ankle sort of had an helping hand in it, but the mentalist is almost positive that the main reason he _had _to sleep was because a certain someone had tired him out the night… well, the afternoon and the night before.

A certain brunette FBI Agent someone, he's been in a relationship with for 24 hours now.

And a certain brunette who's not in bed _with him _any longer.

He smirks, though, as he hears the water running in the huge bathroom of their recently re-purchased room at The Blue Bird (it's incredible what a story of star-crossed lovers can do, especially if the concierge is a romantic at heart who cried when Lisbon threw the glass at his face, breaking the poor man's heart); the sounds suggests that Teresa (yes, she _is _Teresa now. He can call her like that) is taking a shower- a very long one.

Teresa is taking a shower.

Teresa, naked, is taking a shower.

_His Teresa _is naked and wet, under the hot spray of the water.

He castigates himself because he hadn't thought of it as soon as he has heard the noise, and quickly leaving the bed, he gets rid of the boxers and runs to her, making as little noise as possible- he still has a reputation to defend when it comes to sneaking in, and besides, he doesn't want to look desperate.

(Well, not too much, at least).

He whistles when he enters the bathroom, and the breath dies (once again since she told him she feels the same way) in his throat as he sees her silhouette through the smoky glass; it's just lines and shadows, he can't really see her- not all of her- but it's enough. Because, damn it, he made love to _her _the whole night… but then he woke up, and she wasn't there, and for an instant he had honestly believed he had gotten (again) crazy, that he had dreamt all about her and the two of them becoming an _us…_

But Teresa is there. Taking a shower in _their _room. Very much real.

He gasps and he almost hyperventilates, but then he decides that losing his cool right now wouldn't be in his best interest- she has a bad consideration of him already, and besides, it's well known he _is _a breathing and walking living mess- so he decides to be causal about it.

Well, casual, arrogant and _damn sexy _about it.

(Besides, he remembers once gain his brain that Teresa is naked and wet under the shower spray, and as he can't have enough of her, he just _has _to take advantage of the situation. Kind of killing two birds with one stone. Sort of. He isn't sure. It's not like his brain is fully function, with Teresa naked at two steps from him….)

He opens the door of the shower stall, and with his arrogant smile, one hand on his left side, the other casually leaning against the doorframe, he looks at Teresa- _his Teresa. _

"Well, well, well, hello beautiful…" he says, whistling. Teresa gasps and turns towards him, her cheeks red (and not because of the water's temperature), her hands desperately trying to hide her naked body to his sight. He shakes his head, and gesticulates in her general direction with the hand on the doorframe, smirk still in place- and Teresa would swear it looks like an honest to God honest smile. "Teresa, I'd like to remember that last night we made _passionate love for hours. _I sort of already saw everything there's to see."

She blushes even more, tightening the grip around her body- so much her knuckles are turning white, and she'll probably leave a bruise or two on her skin – and it's then that he shamelessly and uninvited enters the shower, closing the door at his back as he starts running his hands down her arms, doing his best to erase her goose bumps.

He also never stops smirking- and not only because she is simply adorable. But because to avoid meeting her eyes, she keeps focusing on her feet, and since he is right before her, and their feet are practically touching, there's a certain… part of his anatomy (yes, his manhood, but she can barely say the word out loud. Hell, she is a good Catholic girl. She can barely _think _it)in the way.

_His hard, erect and well-endowed manhood, slapping against his stomach._

She can't help looking at _it. _And by doing so, she gets more and more embarrassed, which, in turn, makes her redder and redder- something that amuses Jane to no end- and that's why he laughs, hugging her and kissing and nuzzling her neck, his laughter and his smile hot and heavy against her skin, like… like they had a life of their own. "Again: we _did _make passionate love last night."

She shakes her head, closing her eyes. "I know, but…. A semi-dark room, and all the action taking life under the covers? We _didn't _see that much."

Jane rolls his eyes. He isn't an idiot. She doesn't need to spell it for him, he knows her like an open book after all (well, sort of. He was, kind of, at loss when it was about her feelings for him. Once they both moved to Austin, at least) and he knows that what she means is _I don't think I'm pretty enough for _The _Patrick Jane, with my small breasts, and the fact that I'm short, and my huge collection of scars…..). _Chuckling, he shakes his head, splashing drops of water from his hair like he was a wet dog, trying (and failing) to ruffle her _also wet _hair, his other hand now on her side, soft and delicate, and yet his touch like fire, igniting an onslaught of sensations in Teresa, shivers and butterfly in her belly, her core clenching in anticipation.

And also, a bit of fear too.

The fact is, he is _partly _right. Yes, they've spent 24 hours buried in bed, discovering each other for the very first time, but it hasn't been passionate love in _that way; _ they've made love, but it's been with tenderness and affection, and the passion of their love and of their dancing hearts. It's been passionate in the same way it can be for a teenager discovering sex for the first time (making love for the first time, and for them, it's been a little bit like they were discovering it anew)and it's been slow and careful and tender and very, very soft.

Not that she didn't like it, because she did (and her many orgasms from the previous 24 hours can prove it), but even if she is a good Catholic girl, sometimes, just sometimes, Teresa Lisbon likes for things to get a little…

Yeah. Sometimes Teresa Lisbon likes her sex on the dirty and kinky side. Nothing like Fifty Shades of Grey, all right? She isn't into pain (even if she wouldn't put past a spank being somehow…. Nerve-wrecking. In a god way, of course.), but well… doing _it _outside the bed… and a creative (and soft) use of bondages and blindfolds, _that _is something she enjoys. Not on a regular basis, mind you, because she needs to trust completely her man to allow her to give up on control, being helpless in his arms, so different from the uptight, hard-assed cop she _has _to be on the job.

Marcus wasn't _that man _for her (she doesn't even need to wonder why the _sex_ with Marcus has always been very… vanilla. Or why she has never felt with him the same as she did with Jane the first time, and every time, they joined their bodies.), but Jane (she can't bring herself to call him Patrick), on the other hand…

Maybe, just maybe… she _can _be a little more…. Spontaneous with him, when it comes to sex, right?

He looks at her with a quizzical expression, studying her, trying to look for signs of what may be going through her mind; Teresa's eyes are on the floor, she is biting her lips and her cheeks are the prettiest shade of dark pink he has ever seen in his whole life (with the exception of the dark pink of her areolas. And her oh so marvellous nipples. Her now hard nipples. It has to be a good sign, right? And not just because she's been for, what, half an hour under the water?).

He decides to try to save his pride- because maybe he read her wrong (again) and made assumptions (again) and she isn't in the mood for sex (not under the shower jet, at least), but his excuse (even if already used many, many times in the history of mankind) sounds lame even to his own ears, and not a casual remark at all (and he is supposed to be a charmer, a master at what he does…).

"Ehy, c'mon, we're just being good inhabitants of the world, saving water and all that stuff… you know how much I love nature, right?"

She lifts her head and looks at him in the eyes, her green shining and dark and oh, so happy and mischievous, and she is now _licking _her lips with the tip of her tongue; she doesn't even shake her head, she simply takes action- talks matter in her own hands- and running her _wet, hot, burning _hands on his body, her nails scratching lightly his tanned and lightly blond haired skin, she goes on her knees right before him.

Without hesitation, no big breaths or whatsoever.

On her knees, the hot spray cascading on her body like a waterfall (yes, he now believes that afterlife and paradise and God exist, because, really, it's the only reason he can be right before something so beautiful and perfect and magical. And that she is _his.)_, her dark hair glued to her body. Teresa smiles ta him biting her lips, not unsure but yeah, a little shy (not because she has never done it before, but because, well, she has never done it before with _him. Patrick Jane. Her Jane.)_

And then, smiling serene (the kind of smile you get when you are hit hard by some kind of weird epiphany), alluring like only a goddess (only his Teresa) can be, she closes her eyes, and she _does _it.

She pouts, her full lips skimming over the tip of his erection, and at the first contact on her mouth against his sensitive skin, Jane throws his head back, his hands closed in clenched feet, his back and ass falling (and maybe even slapping, he isn't sure of anything any longer, if not of the formidable, beautiful woman, his Teresa, dirtily playing with his penis with her marvellous mouth) against the glass surface of the shower stall.

He feels her chuckles against his sex, and he gasps (in surprise or shock or both, he doesn't know), and he almost lets it go there and then- but he takes a big breath, wills his bio-feedback control back on, and he is again _the _Patrick Jane in control of every portion of his body (and for once, he isn't going to do it because he wants to trick someone or because he wants to show off or whatever; nope, he is doing it only because he wants to make it last, make it good. For _her._).

Teresa rolls the tip of her tongue in the tiny slit of his erection, collecting her ambrosia and breathing in and out hard (she is feeling such a pleasure by doing so, it's so intense that she can't even moan); then, as she hears Jane moaning (maybe he'll never beg out loud with her, but she is pretty sure this is the closest she'll ever get to actually hear him begging her for something), she dares to open her eyes and looks up at him, all clenched fists and teeth and closed eyes, and that's when she decides to up the game.

She slowly, oh so slowly, runs her velvety tongue all over his manhood, feeling the change of texture of his skin, soft like fabric on iron, and then rougher close to his testicles, the vein on the underside pulsating against her wanting mouth. She does it three time, three _agonizing, slow times, _from tip to base, enjoying the sensation, looking for every crevice as she slurps his balls, sucks them one at time.

"Reese…" He says, and she feels tears burning her eyes, and at the same time a joy she has never felt before, all because of a single word, her nickname -_he _is calling her by her nickname, Patrick Jane, because now he can. Because now she is his and he is hers.

Sobbing (happily) she lets it go of his testicles, and takes a step back, her eyes closed again as she inhales his scent (masculine and yet soft, musk and tea and ocean and sun and just _Jane _all rolled up into one), then, without preambles, she takes his shaft in her mouth, deep-throating, her nose soon touching his blonde pubic hairs, her nails skimming his chest as she sucks on him with all her might, hollowing her cheeks for the effort, her tongue circling his erection as she does so, her eyes closed and moans echoing through the stall.

Soft moans from her, who's enjoying the act she is performing on (and yes, for) the man she loves so much.

Half-strangled, half-screamed moans from him, who still can't believe that it's true, all of it, that he is really naked with the woman he has loved for so long and has never thought he would be loved back by.

He opens his eyes a little bit, and when he sees her on her knees right before him, enjoying this so much, her soft smile, it's too much for him; he tries to call her name once more (her nickname, because now he can use it) as her nails scratch his nipples, but all that leaves his mouth are moans and gasps, so he is unable to tell her he is feeling it right through his body, the tell-tale sensation, the shivers and the clenching muscles _and even_ _the damn butterflies in his stomach he hasn't felt in a lifetime, _and, closed eyes, throwing his head back and slapping the cool surface of the stall with his open hands, he (regrettably) comes in her mouth, empting jet after jet of warm seed in her.

He opens his eyes as soon as she feels the stream coming from his sex diminishing, gulping down a mouthful of saliva; his eyes are teary, and all he wants to do is asking her for forgiveness, tell her how sorry he is (he doesn't even know if she likes that sort of thing, he has done all his best to _not _think about it, because it would have been too painful, loving her and thinking of her and not having her), but he is surprised when he sees her looking at him smiling and happy and just… proud and satisfied and even a tiny bit smug.

He smiles (tentatively) as she stands up, her back against the wall opposite him, running her hands through the silky locks as water cascades upon her elf-like body; it's getting cold, but neither of them seem to care, maybe she isn't enjoying that much the shower any longer, but she is making the best out of it, liking her lips under the spray that hits her face, getting a little of the liquid in her mouth to clean herself a little bit from his taste (not that she didn't like it- she did. But she doesn't know if he likes being kissed right after a woman has given him head).

Her answer? He couldn't care any less.

He shakes his head like a wet dog with a very real smile, laughing like a child (or an idiot in love) and eh throws himself at her, devouring her lips as they kiss like they were teenagers (something neither of them has really been), laughing and crying, but mostly laughing, as their lips smash against each other.

(Angela has been the last woman who had truly laughed while kissing him. The only woman who made sex good and fun as well. And now Teresa. Both the loves of his lives. Both real loves. Teresa. The very reason he is the man he is right now. )

"Turnabout is fair play…" he whispers between giggles as his hands roam her body, his breathing hot on her skin, the tip of his tongue sensually (and devilishly) teasing and playing with her lobe, his teeth scratching it, the bite sensual, making her trembles as she closes her eyes and can't help but imagine what he may do to (and with) her.

Jane chuckles as she parts from him and looks at him quizzically (and with fascination and curiosity); he takes her for the shoulders (gentle and delicate and tentative, asking for permission) and turns her; he pushes her against the glass, her forehead colliding delicately (like a caress) against the surface, her hard and laboured breaths fogging it. She feels his hands on her back, traveling her body slowly and sensually, each caress awakening nerve-endings she didn't remember she still had- or that maybe she has never felt alive before; his curls, his forehead are doing the same, she can feel the soft texture against her own skin, and it almost kiss her, when she feels his kissing the small of her back, his warm, big, hands on her hips, everything of him so close to where she needs him the most and yet so far away.

And then… Then, he isn't far away any longer, as, keeping kissing her back, his nose pressed (almost painfully) against her, he sneaks his hands around her; two fingers of one hand open her up to his ministration, her sex engorged and already clenching in anticipation. She gasps when, with the thumb from that hand, he plays with her clit (so close to her opening), electricity running through her whole being as she he is hit hard by an orgasm (she can feel his smug expression against her skin); Jane doesn't let it go, though, and as she is still coming, that damn thumb still pressing and circling her clit, he inserts three fingers from the other hand in her, penetrating her like it was nothing (and it's like it is- she has never been that ready and wet before, after all; this is the kind of effect he has on her), and he masterfully _finger-fucks _her, his fingers thrusting in her willing and wanton body, always, _always_ keeping his thumb on her clit, always making sure to touch, skim over it with his thrusting fingers.

She thinks it can't get any worse (better) as she feels her (second of the session) orgasm approaching, but then his fingers stops pleasuring her; she gasps and would like to turn (because how dares he stopping doing such sinful and pleasurable things to her body?), but then she is gasping again, and for a whole other matter: his tongue joins in the fun, filling the void left from his fingers, and he is licking and lapping and just filling and thrusting in and out of her, and she gasps and gasps and moans again and again, and the bastard keeps smirking and chuckling in and against her, and it' so much… too much…. And when she comes again… it's the kind of orgasm you can't keep having sex through, because it's just too much and she can't stand any longer as her core contacts and spasms all around his tongue (still in her) and he greedily drinks her juices like it was the nectar of the Gods.

(And in some way, it is.)

She falls on the floor like she was a ragdoll, panting, her legs open, her cheek against the glass as she pants and looks at the smug and satisfied expression of Jane (probably the same she has showed him after her own session of oral sex), sitting opposite to her as he cleans his mouth with his arm. Her eyes fall on his member: he is hard and heavy, slapping against his stomach, ready to go at it once again, and she feels like crying, her whole being filled with a longing she has thought long gone, forgotten.

(But it's too soon for that. It's not time yet. But maybe… one day, who knows.)

She kisses him, both of them still on the floor, and it's just a peck (and she still can taste herself on the tip of his tongue), but she knows she would do this for the rest of her life (and deep down she knows she _will _do this for the rest of her life); she stands and offers him her hand, and kissing and embracing him she walks backward in _their _bedroom, one idle hand busy pleasuring his shaft.

It's not over yet.

(Actually, it's just the beginning.)


	2. Chapter 2

They've stayed at the Blue Bird as long as they could, but miracles are impossible even for Patrick Jane (even if their story of star-crossed lovers makes everyone teary, especially women), _and _real life sort of called. Because Teresa has to get her place back, and because, well, she did get four weeks of leave, but she can't spent them all in their love-nest in Miami.

(He is pretty sure he wants to buy something there. One day they'll have their neighbours over, and over tea, he'll casual let it slip that it's in the hotel at the end of the road that he professed his eternal love to her for the first time. Sort of.)

They can't get a direct flight, and somewhere in the middle of their… trip, they have to stop for something (he doesn't pay attention, nor he bothers to ask Teresa what it is about. He rather prefers looking at her like a dreamy teenager), and they end up in a third order motel near the airport to spent the night.

He doesn't care about the place; he has been through worse in the years spent in Sacramento (and he does live in a trailer now. Even if he has an hunch Teresa wouldn't like spending the night there. Maybe it's time to consider a more permanent kind of residence), and besides, all he cares about is being with her and making her smile. Which she has done a lot.

Until now.

Because she doesn't like the hotel, and it's not like they can choose another room or whatever, so Teresa simply makes that funny thing with her nose, like she was a brat (or Samantha from Bewitched), and she eyes the bed with something very close to fear; part of him would like to laugh, because she looks like the heroine of one of those romance novels she says she doesn't like, and yet has a huge collection of, the kind where the virgin heroine is left all alone to share a bed in a secluded place with the vagabond/renegade hero/whatever, and she looks at it like the bed alone could force her to lose her virtue.

Too bad he is pretty sure that Teresa _is _scared, but not of sex (he has it covered, been there, done that, they both enjoyed it very much), but… uhm, how can he gently puts it? Germs? Bacteria? Body fluids? Dirtiness (and _not _of the kinky and sexy and _absolutely light_ variety)?

He sighs (hoping she didn't hear it): he has the vague idea sex isn't in the picture right now. Hell, he has the vague idea that even _sleeping _in _that bed_ isn't exactly in Teresa's mind right now.

"Reese…" he sighs at closed eyes. He knows she doesn't like the place, and he absolutely hates doing this to her, but traveling by plane always made him cranky, and besides, he is still under some pretty heavy painkillers (having sex in the shower at the Blue Bird hasn't apparently been such a good idea. He really should have thought about it better, before standing for so long on his feet. On second thought: it was oh, so worth it.), so he really, really, needs to just sleep. For a short while. Then, if Teresa will ask him to leave and choose another place to stay, so be it, he'll pay with his own money.

She looks at him with a smile, the kind she has on when she understands him and wants to help him and she is just being caring and affectionate (a bit like he was a puppy), and standing on her tip-toes she kisses his chin (she loves doing it. Especially if he hasn't shaved in a couple of days. Better yet, three.); she looks at him, and she can see how tired he is; hell, there are so many lines on his face because of pain and stress and painkillers and all that jazz that he even looks older….

"It's ok, Jane. Just take a nap. I'll go and see if I can find a decent coffee around here." She kisses him again. And then again. And then a third time, because she can, and when she leaves the room she is looking at him like a teenager in love, blushing, and she can't help but keeping sending kisses in his general direction.

(Yes, it's the kind of woman she has turned into because of him. And she _absolutely _loves it.)

He does as she says, and he falls asleep; when he wakes, he sees that there's her watch on his nightstand, and that it's been _hours _(and he doesn't know if he is getting a decent sleeping pattern because she tires him out with regular sex or if it's just because of her presence), and he smiles because he hears the shower going in the bathroom, and he has come to enjoy Teresa under the shower spray- him, and his manhood as well. And that's why his best friend takes life, getting hard, filled with blood as Jane's mind gets filled with images of having sex with his sweet Teresa under the water jet.

He stands up and throws his clothes on the floor, and then he runs in the bathroom; it's not exactly the sexiest place on Earth, and the grey curtain is sort of… well, it's not really killing the mood, but looking at his penis Jane knows that it is at least _diminishing it._

Smirking and licking his lips like the cat who got the canary, Jane throws open the curtain, and enters in the small space, Lisbon looking at him curiously, like they've never done this before (What the hell?); he looks at her quizzically, because, all right, he knows she doesn't like the place, and it's not a sexy or romantic location, but it's _them _they are talking about, and in the last few days they've never been able to keep their hands to each other, so, again… what the hell?

And then, he sees _them. _

And it's _them _that kill the mood.

She is wearing neon green flip-flops to shower, and it's not just that they make her less attractive (because she still is), but, _neon green_, really?

She looks at him like an angry little, bad-ass princess as she sees his eyes focused on her feet- and definitely not because he finds them sexy (which he normally does; their third night together he played with them a lot. And she, uhm, used them as well on him, in a rather… spontaneous way. Even at dinner. In the lounge of the hotel.) "Ehy, flip-flops are the least. I even considered showering dressed… I mean, have you seen this place? We didn't get to stay in this sort of holes not even when we worked at the CBI!"

She pouts, and he smiles, shaking his head, his nose buried in her dark locks as she takes him in her arms, and even if he'd like to have his way with her, and say something in the line of, _It's lucky you didn't get dressed then, _he doesn't; they just stay up in the shower, embracing and kissing and just simply making out like hormonal teenagers, for as long as they can.

(Or at least, until the water doesn't turn cold, and they run away from the shower shrieking like little girls. Still laughing, though.)


End file.
